


Can we start again?

by verybadidea



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22130578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verybadidea/pseuds/verybadidea
Summary: Was bringing Peter's body back home where anyone could find him a good idea? Probably not.Or fix-it post season 3 episode 9 where Roman feels guilty for killing Peter and wants nothing but save him.
Relationships: Roman Godfrey/Peter Rumancek
Comments: 6
Kudos: 112





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Years later after the party, I've binge-watched the entire series in a few days, and I feel like I've been robbed. So, so many things to fix.
> 
> I hope the fandom is still out there somewhere!
> 
> Side note: English is not my native language and I don't have any beta reader, so bear with me.

_this is all my fault this is all my fault this is all my fault this is all my fault this is all my fault this is all my fault_

Was bringing Peter's body back home where anyone could find him a good idea? Probably not.

_this is all my fault this is all my fault this is all my fault this is all my fault this is all my fault this is all my fault_

But there he was, on the same bed they shared, lying as white as the sheets because yes. He was dead.

_fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK_

Roman was pacing nervously around the bed, phone stuck to his ear, spreading blood all over the floor. But he only cared about the one on Peter's throat and chest. That red blanket was all he could look at.

"Come on, Pryce," he muttered between his teeth,"answer your _fucking_ phone!"

"—You have reached the office of Dr. Johann Pryce. After the beep tone—"

With a scream of rage, he threw the mobile against the wall. The loud crash was nothing compared to what he felt. Not even his shoulder could compared.

He let out a loud sigh. Now wasn't the time for a tantrum.

Recomposing himself, he moved to the bed, taking Peter's cold hand into his own.

"Tell me what to do," he said more to himself than to the dead body. At least that's what he convinced himself. "Tell me what the fuck I'm supposed to do."

The hand was so, so cold. Peter's hand was usually so warm, full of life. Tears started to blur his vision. Fuck, it wasn't the time for that either. He had cried enough in the alley. And in the car. And while dragging Peter's body. Who knew a human body could cry so much?

But he wasn't human.

He wasn't _human_. He was _upir_.

Everything was clear as day.

He wiped off his tears. "Pryce's not here. He can't save you. But I don't need him." He squeezed Peter's hand even more. " _We_ don't need him. I just have to _think_ like him."

His blood. All was coming back to blood. From start to end, it was all about blood. Once again, just like this fucking snake eating its own fucking tail.

How many times had he injured himself? Far too many. He could healed himself because of his upir blood. Maybe… _maybe_ he could heal Peter too. This could work, right? This had to work.

Not wasting any more time, he bit himself on the wrist, and fresh red blood started oozing from the wound. With his other hand, he opened Peter's mouth and started pouring all the blood he could.

Hoping that it would somehow go down, he then smeared the remaining blood on Peter's wounds, the wounds _he_ had done.

Peter looked bad before, and now it was even worse.

This _had_ to work.

* * *

It had been three days. Three fucking days.

Three days where he didn't leave the house, not even to feed. He didn't fell hungry anyway.

Three days where he receiving numerous phone calls but he couldn't care less.

Three days where he spent most of his time in the dark, smoking whatever he had left, cleaning frenetically all the blood he could find the house, on his clothes, on Peter. He couldn't stand the color red anymore. Or the smell of bleach.

Three days and Peter looked exactly the same.

He didn't know if it was because of the guilt or the need to monitor Peter every single second, but he wasn't sleeping much. The cause didn't matter, because the result was the same: he was going crazy.

Or at least that's what he told himself when he started to hear Peter's voice.

"You know you did that, right?"

Roman shot his eyes open and almost fell from the sofa he was drifting off on. He looked at Peter, remaining still on the bed next to him. _Great, now I'm hearing voices._

"You already have so many voices in your head, don't feel obligated to add mine to the list."

Starting to panic, he looked around in the dim room. When he located the source of the voice, his heart missed a beat.

"That can't be," he whispered.

Peter, _another_ Peter was standing in a corner, arms crossed, nonchalantly leaning against the wall. He looked the same as he looked in the alley, blood dripping from his neck and chest.

"Of course it can't be, you dumbfuck," the other Peter said, "I'm dead on your bed!"

As to prove his point, he gestured to the body.

Roman slowly stood up, shakily. "I'm hallucinating."

"Call that what you want, the fact remains that you killed me."

"I—" Was he really having a conversation with a vision? "You shot me first!"

"You killed my cousin and lied to me about it! What did you expect? That we would hold hands and walk into the sunset?" Peter let out a dark snicker. "And come on, you whiny shitface, it's not like you didn't get over it. Your shoulder is fine since you removed the bullet. Meanwhile, I'm dead."

Every word stung like a needle in his heart. "I'm trying to save you!"

"Well try harder!"

Silence. He really needed to sleep. He closed his eyes, hoping the vision would go away.

"I thought you were my friend, Roman. Family."

It wasn't a needle, it was a fucking sharp sword.

Roman sighed and took his face between his hands. "I don't know what you want from me."

"Use your brain for once." The voice was closer than before. Roman looked up and found his friend directly in front of him.

"Upir blood isn't magical," Peter continued.

"I thought—"

"When I met you, you knew shit about all of this. Now you're some kind of expert?"

"What am I supposed to do?" Roman asked, his voice almost desperate.

"If Destiny was here she would tell you."

"I—." Fuck, the tears were back. "I didn't mean to. You know I didn't mean to. I was trying to defend you. Next thing I knew, she was bleeding on the floor. I had to— she would have agonising in pain for hours."

"And then you had nothing better to do than setting up Milan?"

"I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't… I couldn't let you know the truth. You couldn't understand. You would have killed me."

"Newsflash, asshole, you were right."

"If I could go back…"

"Well you can't."

Peter's tone was harsh and cold, but his eyes… Fuck he had missed seeing these eyes. They were saying something else. That's what gave Roman the strength to take a step forward and reached slowly for Peter's face.

It felt so real.

"I can save you," he whispered.

"You've been glooming for days like you were the one dead. That doesn't sound like something productive."

"Fuck, Peter." All his energy seemed to leave him. He dropped his head on Peter's shoulder. He could swear the man was really here. "Help me. Help me save you."

"Why?"

"I need you." Roman was sobbing again. "I've always needed you. You can't leave me."

Peter gently pushed him away and held his shoulders to look at him in the eyes. "That's on you, mate." The tone sounded soft but the guilt Roman felt was very much harsh.

"I know. I'm so sorry. About you. About Destiny. I wish you could forgive me. I wish you wouldn't hate me."

Pause. "You think I hate you?"

_What?_

He looked for lies in Peter's eyes. There was none, only the soft usual glow of his gaze. "You don't?"

"Roman, you killed me and here I am talking to you. What do you think?"

"But—"

He knew that wasn't real, that this whole scene was a piece of his imagination, but it felt so _good_ to hear him say it.

"I could never hate you, Roman." The grip on his shoulder tightened. "Sure, I wanted your head on a stick for a moment, but that's my way of dealing with anger. And I had all the rights to be angry."

Speechless, Roman only nodded.

"We all did fucked up shit," Peter continued. "You're the king in that category but that doesn't make me white as snow. You know what hurt the most? I trusted you."

"Peter…"

"I don't know if I could trust you again. But after I left, you probably thought the same. That was a shitty move of my part, too. I should have been here. For you."

Roman felt a hand in his hair, and he _oh so_ wished his mind wasn't fucking with him.

"You know, as soon as I pulled the trigger, I regretted it instantly, no matter how angry I was with you. I couldn't shoot you a second time. That's how fucked up I am when it comes to you."

He sweared he could feel Peter's breath against his face.

"I know you regret everything, Roman. I'm angry with you, I'm hurt, but I don't hate you. I believe you when you say you are sorry."

"I am, Peter. I'm really sorry." He clutched Peter's hand against his face and held unto it like a crutch. "Let me save you. Please. Tell me what to do. We can start anew. I can disappear afterwards. You'll never have to see me again. But one last time, help me. I don't want to live in a world where Peter Rumancek the werewolf doesn't exist."

A small smile appeared on Peter's face. God, he had missed that smile.

"There. You said it."

Roman frowned. "What?"

"You found the solution. _Finally_."

"What?" he repeated, dumbfounded.

Peter let out of long sigh and let go of his face. "Thank god you're pretty." He shook his head. "Roman, what day are we?"

It took him a moment to focus, mainly because he was missing Peter's touch. "Wednesday?

Peter raised his eyebrows. "And that's relevant, _how_?"

"You asked me!"

"Let's start again. What am I?"

"A… werewolf?" he suggested tentatively.

"Why doesn't that sound like a question?"

"It's you who's being cryptic!"

Peter pinched his nose. "Fine. Alright. I'm a werewolf. Now. What _day_ are we?"

The answer came to him as clear as day. "It's the full moon tonight."

The man threw a fist in the air. "And he strikes!"

"You.. you are going to turn? Even dead?"

He shrugged. "My head is still attached to my body so most likely. We Rumancek are resilient. But you have to bury me."

"Bury you?"

"So I can come back to where we're all from. Earth, the ground, whatever magic bullshit it means."

As weird as it sounded, Roman knew it all made sense. "Like being reborn."

"Now look who's becoming an expert."

"What if… what if it doesn't work?"

Another precious smile from Peter. Sadder, this time. "Well we won't know unless we try, right?"

Roman wanted to reach for him but his eyes started to sting, as if sleep was taking over his body. He could barely keep them open.

"Be quick, Roman. It's already late."

"Peter?" His mouth was like cotton and his vision started to blur. "Peter, stay with me."

"I can't." The voice was barely an echo now. "But you'll see me soon."


	2. Chapter 2

Roman hated waking up. He hated the groggy state he could never snap out of, that feeling of being still half in the limbo, unsure of being really awake. Patience, coffee and sometimes a little pill from his own stash were always needed in the morning.

That evening though, that wasn't a problem.

As soon as he opened his eyes, he was fully awake, adrenalin pumping through his veins, keeping him alert. His clothes were drenched, and so was the sofa he was still sitting on. He didn't know that waking up from a nightmare— or whatever that was— could make him sweat that much.

Catching his breath and trying to steady his fast beating heart, he looked around the room, focused. Nothing had changed. Peter was there on the bed, still not breathing. The other Peter was lingering in the corner of his eye, but the aching feeling of that memory ended when a soft golden light hit his face: the sun was beginning to set between the shuttered window.

The sun.

The full moon.

His dream.

He had to act fast.

* * *

Burying Peter was even worse than dragging his body to the house.

It was easy enough to dig a hole in his garden. He already had dug enough graves for a lifetime, so what was one more? It was tiring, some pain in his shoulder was still lingering, but nothing he couldn't handle.

But when came the time of actually covering Peter with soil, each shovelful felt like torture. The more Peter's body disappeared, the less hope Roman had. The sun was finishing its course in the horizon behind him, and all he could think about was how dreadfully definitive that burial sounded. He should have let Peter's body rest on his bed. He should have stayed with him like he did before. The gyspy would have eventually wake up, because he had to, right? Roman _needed_ him to wake up. Drowning him in dirt was as good as nailing his coffin.

But Roman could't allow himself to have those intrusive thoughts, couldn't let them dictate his actions. He was short on time and he had made a promise. Most likely to an imaginary version of his friend, but it still counted as one.

He finished his task when the sun was close to be completely down. Covered in dirt and sweat, he quickly retreated to the house, and decided he just had to wait.

So he did. He waited.

And waited.

And waited more.

It felt like a re-run of those awful three days he had had. The clock was ticking, nothing was happening, and alcohol was the only bliss keeping him away from the darkness.

How many drinks has he had? He lost count.

He had wanted to stay near the grave but something stopped him. The wolf might kill him. Hell, _Peter_ might kill him. Whatever happened in his dream wasn't real. It was a piece of his imagination, a fantasy where Peter didn't hate him. And yes, it led him to think about the full moon, but it wasn't reality. If… no, _when_ Peter would wake up, he would hate him, probably even more than before. He would try to kill him. Again.

Dying was probably what he deserved anyway.

So he just had to wait.

* * *

The sun hit Roman's face too strongly and he groaned. His head was pounding like a hammer on a brick but it was nothing compared to how he viscerally hated being waken up with the morning sun.

_Wait._

_Morning?_

He quickly opened his eyes and found his living room brightly lit by the first daylights.

_Shit._ He couldn't believe he had fallen asleep again, on the couch this time. A few empty bottles on the floor next to him were proof that the muffled sound in his head was not his imagination. He tried to sit up but moving seemed like the effort of the century.

"You have the worst hangover face that I've ever seen."

Roman stopped cold in his movement. He slowly turned his head towards the voice, to find Peter a few meters from him, sitting on the clear plastic chair next to the couch.

"Peter?"

From head to toe, he looked like shit. Wrapped tightly in a thick blanket, one of Roman's, he was covered in dirt and blood. But his face on its own was enough to believe he had just come back from the dead.

"You're— you're really here?" Roman's voice cracked. Maybe his mind was playing games again. Maybe this pale face and those dark circles were another piece of his fantasy.

Peter simply nodded, his gaze never leaving his friend's eyes.

Roman slowly got up from the couch and moved to Peter, just like he would do to approach a scared animal. As he got closer, he could smell everything, from the sweat to the blood to the _wolf_ still lingering. That's when he noticed Peter's immaculate neck.

The wound. His wound.

It wasn't there anymore.

"Fuck, it's _really_ you," he whispered.

His knees buckled and he dropped to the floor right in front of Peter.

The gyspy scoffed. "You look like shit, Roman."

"That makes two of us." He still couldn't believe it. "How long have you been here?"

Peter shrugged. "'Don't know. A few hours."

"A few— Why didn't you wake me?!"

Another shrug. "Looked like you needed it."

"Fuck Peter, sleep is the least important thing in my life right now."

The man didn't answer and the pregnant silence made Roman uneasy. Especially that Peter wasn't breaking eye contact. Was it the calm before the storm, the composure before the wolf would jump at his throat?

But Peter didn't move, and Roman got lost in his gaze. He couldn't define what he was seeing.

"I can't believe it worked," Roman said, finally.

Peter stroke his beard. _God I missed that habit._ "It was my idea, so _of fucking course_ it worked."

_What_?

"Your idea?"

Peter titled his head. "Roman, did you think you could think of that all by yourself?"

"But… it wasn't real—"

"We share dreams. Does that surprised you?"

"You were dead!" The memory of Peter's cold body gave him chills.

"Not enough, apparently." He frowned, thoughtful. "Maybe your blood helped with the connection. I have no idea how _upirs_ work."

His dream— _their_ dream— came back to Roman like a flash. A warm spark of hope rose in his chest along with the memory of Peter's words, but he couldn't let it grow. He had to be sure. He wouldn't stand the disillusion.

"So… you meant what you said?"

Peter nodded and broke eye contact for the time since their reunion and Roman felt like a needle had pierced through his chest. The seemingly innocent movement was all he needed to know.

"Fucking liar," Roman muttered between his teeth.

Of course Peter hadn't meant what he said. How could he? How could he not hate him after all he had done? How could he not hate this ugliness inside of him?

Peter looked back down at him and furrowed his brows. "What?"

"You're a fucking liar," Roman repeated more clearly, a new wave of anger and disgust developing inside of him.

"I heard you the first time. Why would you say that?"

"Because I don't believe you. I know you hate me."

"Shit, Roman." Peter let out an exasperated sight and ran his fingers through his hair, the blanket dropping from his shoulders. "I just came back from the _dead_ and the fact that I don't hate you is what you find _hard_ to believe?"

"You should want to kill me. You should want to rip my throat and leave me in a dark alley like I did to you!"

A firm hand landed around Roman's throat, taking him by surprise.

"Maybe I should," Peter hissed.

Roman grabbed Peter's wrist with both his hands, trying to gasp some air as the grip was tightening on his windpipe.

"Maybe I fucking should," he continued. "So you would shut the fuck up for _once_."

"I…deserve… it," Roman managed to say between two short breaths.

"You fucking _idiot_."

His throat was suddenly free, and he had a few seconds to catch his breath before two strong hands enclosed his face and soft lips were pressed against his own. He could barely understand what was going on and Peter was already on the floor above him, kissing him firmly against the ground. Roman felt powerless, unmoving, as if his brain couldn't catch up the situation. It didn't make any sense. That wasn't supposed to happen.

Peter finally let go of his mouth and started to lay soft kisses along his jaw. "I don't want to live in a world where Roman Godfrey the dumb _upir_ doesn't exist," he whispered when he arrived to his ear.

Something awoke inside Roman, it was his turn to grab Peter's face. The man looked at him surprised by the sudden change while Roman searched in his eyes for any trace of lies or malice.

There was none. Only the usual soft glow of Peter's eyes.

That's all he needed.

He pulled Peter's face towards his own and kissed him open mouth, their tongue finally tasting each other. When Roman slid his hands against Peter's naked chest, the latter let out a grunt and deepened the kiss. Roman felt all his body vibrating, each of his sense heightened. He could feel everything, from the warmth of Peter's body against his own, to his sweet smell. He could hear his heartbeat faster and faster just like his own, could sense the blood pumping through his veins, and G _od_ how fucking exhilarated it made him feel.

Almost out of breath, Peter slowed down and pressed one last soft kiss against Roman's mouth, slightly bitting his lower lip as he let go.

But Roman wanted more. The kisses had felt so good. Like being back home after a long and tiring day. He yearned that feeling and wanted to feel it again, to feel _alive_ again.

Before Peter could get away from him, he grabbed his arms and push himself against him, flipping their position. Now on top, he slid his fingers through Peter's long hair and started pressing his mouth against his, once again. Peter gladly welcomed him but with less feverishness than before, softly stroking Roman's face as to calm him down.

"Roman," Peter said gently between two kisses.

He didn't answer, too busy attacking Peter's scruffy jaw.

"Roman."

His name between those lips was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He wanted to hear it again and again and again.

He laid down kisses against Peter's throat, and he could sense his pulse beneath his mouth. It was driving him mad, like a moth with a flame. He brushed his teeth against the skin with the faintest pressure. He heard Peter let out a moan he didn't know he was holding.

"Fuck, Roman—," he groaned as he arched his back.

Roman was back at his mouth, his beautiful mouth, pressing his body against Peter's because it wasn't enough, never enough. As he deepened the kiss even more, he slid his right hand between them towards Peter's waist, who jerked uncontrollably at the touch.

The gyspy managed to broke the kiss with a sudden turn of the head. Roman groaned at the loss.

"I'm disgusting, Roman."

"I don't care."

As to prove it, he started to lower his mouth towards Peter's chest, trying to find that sweet spot that would make him squirm in delight. He could feel Peter's body wanting him as much as he wanted him, and he knew it was now or never.

But before he could reached his destination, he felt Peter's hand against face who firmly pulled him up.

"Roman, _stop,"_ he ordered as their eyes met.

How could Peter want this to stop? He didn't want _any_ of this to stop. Ever.

"Let me do it," Roman pleaded.

Beneath his blushed face, Peter looked concern."You need to calm down."

"I'm calm!"

The sentence got out louder than he had expected. That's also when he realised his vision was blurry, more than usual. He touched his face and felt water on his fingertips, but not from sweat. He was crying. When had he start crying?

Peter brushed the said tears with his thumbs and laid a soft kiss on his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere," he said gently.

"W—what?"

"I'm not going anywhere," he repeated. He kissed him again, as softly as the last time. "Not this time."

A heavy weight he didn't know he had lifted from his chest. He felt all his muscles finally relax, after what seemed like days and days of tension, and he let himself go against Peter. He buried his head the crock of his neck.

Peter started to gently stroke his hair and tightened their embrace, holding Roman closer against him. He strangely felt safe in his arms, safer than he had ever been, their body interlocking perfectly with each other.

"I'll stay with you," Peter added. "I know you will never fully trust me, but as long as you need me, I promise I'll stay with you this time."

Pause. "I'll always need you." The sentence was barely audible and muffled.

Peter let out a small laugh. "Well, you better get used to it, then. I told you we were resilient. You'll never get rid of me."

And in that instant, Roman fully believed him.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> _Kudos are love, comments are life._  
>  _Come say hi on[Tumblr](http://lactobacille.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/lactobacille)!_


End file.
